


Where Faith in God Begins

by teacuphuman



Series: 2016 Inception Kink Bingo [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crisis of Faith, M/M, Priest Kink, Underage Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage Eames is sent to Father Arthur for guidance, but the message gets lost in translation.</p><p>*Takes place over about a month, when Eames is about to turn 18*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Faith in God Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Broken Promises square on my Inception Kink Bingo card.
> 
> This was supposed to be 1000 words of porn, and yet here it sits, over 5000 words about losing faith and finding love. I think a lot of my own feelings about being a queer Catholic woman struggling with the teachings of the Church ended up in here, so I apologize if that throws the story off.

Arthur stares at the young man slouching on the front steps of the small house behind the church. He’d been in town picking up groceries when Bishop Andrews called to announce Arthur’s new charge had arrived three days early, and why wasn’t Arthur there to greet him. The young man sighs and runs a hand through his jaw-length hair, switching his weight to the opposite leg. This isn’t exactly the “teen” Arthur had been expecting.

 

“So you’re Charles?” Arthur smiles tightly.

 

“Eames.” 

 

“Sorry?” Arthur struggles to pull his keys out of his pocket.

 

“My name,” the young man explains, shouldering his duffle and plucking one of the paper bags out of Arthur’s arms. “It’s Eames. That’s what people call me.”

 

“Oh. I was told your name is Charles Whittington.” 

 

“You were told wrong.” The boy clenches his jaw.

 

“Right. You are Archbishop Whittington’s nephew, though, I haven’t got things completely wrong?” Arthur takes a step back, wondering if this was the boy he’d expected at all.

 

“I go by my mother’s maiden name.”

 

“That doesn’t answered my question.” Arthur points out, making the boy smile, and damn, this is going to be more difficult than he originally thought. Eames’ teeth are just crooked enough to notice, and his smile is a killer. Arthur takes a deep breath.

 

“Nephew, right. Yeah, I’m the one they told you about. You gonna save my soul, Father?” The smile morphs into a mocking sneer.

 

Arthur straightens, seeing the challenge in the boy’s eyes. “You’re in charge of your soul, Mr. Eames. I’m in charge of keeping you out of trouble.”

 

As he brushes past to unlock the door Eames leans closer. “Lucky you.”

 

*****

  
  
  


Arthur doesn’t want to do this. He’s plead with the Bishop to send the kid somewhere else, but his excuses fall on deaf ears. The young man is the Archbishop’s nephew and there will be no changing his mind. Arthur, it seems, is just the man for the job.

 

So Arthur takes Eames’ picture and starts a file. When Eames asks what the photo is for, Arthur shows him the Church’s community board in the narthex. Technically, it isn’t a lie. God already knows about Arthur’s files, and hasn’t seen fit to send him a reason to stop making them. See, the thing is, there’s just so much to remember. Arthur is well liked in their small community and his parishioners are keen on including him in their lives. It just wouldn’t do to forget the name of Mrs. Laurent’s granddaughter’s new baby when the woman asks Arthur to say a prayer for the child. 

 

Arthur keeps meticulous records on the people in and around his church, including an updated photo, clipped to the inside cover. If he finds himself taking Eames’ file out a little more than is usual over that first week, it’s only because he has so much new information to add as he gets to know the young man. And, if for some reason, Arthur is moved to store Eames’ file out of sequence, well, that’s between him and God.

 

*******

 

Arthur watches Eames closely that first week, searching for a clue as to why he’s been sent to a boring little church in a quiet countryside community. Bishop Andrews had been reluctant to divulge the details of Eames’ wrongdoings, saying only that the Archbishop figured the boy couldn’t get into much mischief out there, and that Arthur shouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want the answers to.

 

Arthur is quite surprised to hear he has become well known for taking troubled young people under his wing and setting them back on the straight and narrow. Especially considering he’s mentored exactly two such young people, and neither are currently speaking to him. Still, Thomas joined the seminary, so he supposes that’s a point in his favour. The community no longer asks about Rhana, and Arthur knows her disappearance feels like blessing for them, but his heart will always ache at the loss. He can only pray that wherever she is now, she’s found happiness.

 

All in all, Eames is a welcomed distraction to Arthur’s mundane existence, and he enjoys delegating some of the more physical chores to someone else. He tasks Eames with yard work, showing him where the key to the shed is kept and leaving him to it. Within an hour he’s had three complaints and five commendations about “that shirtless young man in the kirkyard”.

 

Arthur picks up the t-shirt from where hung it on the railing, and lobs it at the back of his head to get his attention. Eames pulls out his earbuds and turns around.

 

“Turn it off!” Arthur shouts over the roar of the mower.

 

Eames cups his ear, mouthing nonsense and feigning confusion. Arthur crosses the yard and pushes Eames’ hand off from the dead man’s switch, silencing the machine.

 

“Is there a problem, Father?” Eames asks, eyes wide and innocent.

 

So this is how it’s going to be, is it? “Mr. Eames, put your shirt back on.” Arthur’s eyes stray to the black ink curling over Eames’ shoulder.

 

“But it’s so hot out, Father.” Eames smirks at Arthur’s wandering attention.

 

Arthur takes a step back and looks away. “Then I suggest you keep a water bottle on you while you’re out here. You can’t wander around church property half naked.”

 

“Right, wouldn’t want to give the old biddies the vapours.”

 

Arthur chuckles and Eames smiles, looking delighted, if surprised, at his reaction.

 

“God help their husbands if that were to happen,” Arthur says, picking the t-shirt up off the grass and shaking it out. “Your shirt, Mr. Eames. Keep it on.”

 

Arthur turns and heads back to his office, only shivering a little at Eames’ whispered “Yes, Father.”

 

******

 

Arthur is fine until Mass on Saturday evening. Things are under control. Eventually, he plans on having Eames help out with the preparations, maybe do a few readings, but for now he will sit and observe, familiarizing himself with Arthur’s way of doing things.

 

To Arthur astonishment, Eames is quite the attentive parishioner. Sure, he mumbles through the prayers, and barely whispers through the hymns, but during Arthur’s sermon Eames is focused solely on the pulpit. Arthur knows he’s no slouch when it comes to preaching, it’s one of the reason’s his little church draws such high numbers, but having Eames’ cloudy blue-green eyes aimed directly at him while the young man fidgets in his seat and runs his hands through his hair has Arthur feeling off-kilter and warm. By the time communion rolls around, it’s all Arthur can do not to let his fingers linger at Eames’ mouth when he places the wafer on his tongue.

 

Shamed by his thoughts, Arthur resolves to keep his eyes on the rest of the congregation until he ends the sermon and releases them. He’s shaking hands and bidding farewells on the front steps when Eames appears, standing so close Arthur can feel the heat of him against his side. Once the last parishioner has gone, Eames follows Arthur back into the church, silently helping Arthur shed and store his robes, readying them for the morning mass. Arthur excuses himself from dinner, locking his office door and hiding there until he hears Eames go to bed. 

 

Mass the next morning is a dreary affair, Arthur having added a little brimstone and fire to his sermon, trying to reinforce the walls he’s so carefully built up around himself. Eames sits in the front pew again, playing with his hair and distracting Arthur. The picnic after mass is a good buffer, allowing Arthur to immerse himself in his community, discussing their fundraising efforts and the repairs needed to the high school roof. He sees Sarah, one the young women in town, approach Eames and strike up a conversation. Arthur tries not to frown when she puts her hand on Eames’ arm, tries not to feel jealous when Eames smiles down at her.

 

Sunday evening Eames is quiet at dinner, watching Arthur with calculating eyes until he excuses himself and disappears. When he wakes Monday morning, Arthur finds Eames already outside, gassing up the mower, his hair held out of his face with a green headband. Arthur watches him from the window in his office while he cuts a weave into the grass, stopping every few minutes to run his hands through his hair, adjusting the strip of cloth pushing it back. Eames is vain, but that’s not the trouble that brought him here. Still, it couldn’t hurt to give the boy a trim. 

 

After lunch, Arthur leads Eames to the back porch, pressing him into a chair and draping a towel over his shoulders.

 

“Don’t you need my permission for this?” Eames sulks. 

 

“You’re in my care until your uncle decides otherwise, or you turn eighteen, so no. I don’t. You’re preoccupied with your vanity, Eames. This will only serve to focus you.” Arthur starts snipping, letting the silken strands fall from his fingers to the floor. Every snip feels like a victory.

 

Eames scowls the whole time, demanding to see the results as soon as Arthur steps away.

 

“Er, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Arthur says, squinting at the uneven sections.

 

“What did you do?” Eames says, snatching the small mirror from the railing. “What in the bloody fuck did you do to my hair?”

 

Arthur winces. “Stay here, I’ll get the clippers.”

 

When Arthur returns, Eames’ leg is jumping, his anger barely concealed beneath the surface. He won’t look at Arthur, but he seems to calm down as the blades buzz against his head. He jumps up as soon as Arthur switches the device off, swiping the mirror and running his palm over the bristles that now cover his scalp.

 

“S’not so bad, I suppose,” Eames says, cocky grin in place. “What d’you think, Father?”

 

Arthur can only nod, wrapping the cord around his palm until it bites into his flesh, cutting off the circulation. Eames has a scar that runs along the right side of his hairline, back to the crown of his skull. One of his ears sticks out at an angle, and it’s slightly pointier than its mate. Without his long blond hair, Eames looks older. A little sharper and a little more rough. He looks like everything Arthur’s ever dreamt about.

 

*******

The next morning there’s a new swagger in Eames’ walk. Arthur keeps running into him around the house so he escapes to the church, taking inventory of the candlesticks and sacramental wine. He’s estimating the volume of the Holy Oils when Eames finds him. Arthur startles at his greeting, nearly dropping the clay jar in his hand.

 

“Are you hiding from me, Father?” Eames drawls, looking at the clipboard over Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“Of course not,” Arthur lies, saying a small prayer for forgiveness. “Just busy.”

 

“Too busy for lunch?” 

 

“I should finish this, you go on ahead.” Arthur picks up another jar, lifting the lid to peer inside.

 

Eames plucks the jar out of Arthur’s hand and puts it back on the table. “Now Father, were you not just telling me the importance of eating three square meals a day?”

 

“No. I have literally never said those words to you.” Arthur reaches for the jar, encountering Eames’ hand instead.

 

“Funny, could have sworn it was you. Anyway, I’ve gone to all this trouble, and I know you’d hate to discourage me when I show initiative, so let’s go.”

 

“Go where?” Arthur says, stupidly, starting at where Eames’ hand is wrapped around his own.

 

“Lunch, Father. Do try and keep up.”

 

Before Arthur can protest further, he’s being pulled out the side door of the church, and led through the kirkyard. Eames keeps hold of his hand until they reach the Ashworth mausoleum, near the back of the property. A blankets been spread on the ground and Eames pulls a basket from the behind the statue of a weeping angel. He kneels and begins unpacking containers of food.

 

“Who did all this?” Arthur asks.

 

“Who do you think? I did.” 

 

Eames grins up at him, and  _ oh _ , isn’t that  pretty sight. Arthur drops onto the blanket, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

 

“You work too hard, Father.” Eames hands him a turkey sandwich.

 

“I have a lot of responsibilities.” Arthur says dully and takes a bite. 

 

“What, out here? Everyone loves you.” Eames tears into his own sandwich, finishing it in three bites, a skill known only to growing young men.

 

“I do my best,” They’re out here, so Arthur figures he may as well take the chance to do some digging. “Why aren’t you in school?”

 

Eames shrugs. “S’boring. I was ahead so I took all my annuals early and graduated last spring. I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“You don’t look dumb.”

 

“I’m not young, either. I turn eighteen next month.”

 

“I know how old you are,” Arthur picks at his sandwich. “You don’t look that young.”

 

“No? Not even with this haircut?” Eames teases, and Arthur can’t fight a chuckle.

 

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

 

“S’all right. It’s just hair, innit? It’ll grow back.” Eames uncaps a thermos and pours out a cup of coffee.

 

“No tea?” Arthur asks.

 

“I’ve never seen you drink tea, figured you’d prefer coffee. Seems to be ‘Arthur Fuel’.” Eames grins, handing the cup over and leaning back on his elbows.

 

“Noticed that, did you?” Arthur takes a sip and it’s perfect. Just the right amount of sugar and scalding hot. “So what’s all this about then?” He waves at their surroundings.

 

“This, Father,” Eames says seriously. “Is a kirkyard.”

 

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

 

“Hey now, you’re not supposed to talk like that. You have responsibilities. What would your parishioners think?”

 

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “I think they forget priest are still humans. They see the collar and they think we’re incapable of having fun. Mrs. James scolded me for telling a joke at a dinner party once. I considered faking an allergy to get out of accepting further invitations.”

 

“Why, Arthur, you scoundrel! Next you’ll tell me you’re not a virgin.”

 

Arthur chokes on his coffee, scalding himself when he spills it over his hand and onto his chest.

 

“Shit, sorry. Sorry!” Eames is there in a flash, sopping up the spilled liquid with a paper napkin.

 

“Fucking hell!” Arthur flaps his hand, trying to lessen the sting. Eames is still patting him down, knees planted on either side of Arthur’s left leg. Arthur stills when he realizes Eames is practically in his lap. He can feel the boy’s breath across his cheek, the firm muscle of his thighs pressing in on either side of Arthur’s knee. 

 

Eames’ hand settles on Arthur’s chest, the shirt now cold and clinging. Slowly, lightly, Arthur runs his unwounded hand up the side of Eames’ leg and over his hip, settling at his waist. The hand that isn’t currently tracking Arthur’s racing heart is trailing up his neck and into his hair, tilting his head back so he has nowhere to look but at Eames.  His eyes are green today, and his lips are wet. Eames leans down until they’re cheek to cheek, each panting into the other’s ear.

 

Eames rolls his hip slowly, dragging his groin up Arthur’s leg and the hardness he feels against his thigh has Arthur turning his head to gasp into Eames’ mouth. It’s apparently all the encouragement Eames needs because he crashes their lips together, grinding against Arthur until they topple over onto the blanket, hands frantic and bodies surging. 

 

Eames is still holding the back of Arthur’s skull, rubbing against him so hard Arthur worries he’ll chafe. He gets his hand between them, shoving past the waistband of Eames’ track pants, and taking him in hand. Eames keens, shuddering at the touch and coming almost immediately, coating Arthur’s hand with spunk. Before Arthur can extract himself, Eames is shoving away and pulling at Arthur’s flies. He gets them just open enough to pull Arthur out and swallow him down. Arthur bites his palm, tasting the salty tang of Eames’ release, the other hand rubbing against Eames’ prickly head. He regrets for a moment, cutting Eames’ hair, because all Arthur can think about is getting a good enough grip to hold him in place. That thought alone is enough to send him over the edge. He garbels out a warning, but Eames sucks him through it, taking it all in. 

 

Eames presses small, wet kisses to Arthur’s stomach where his shirt has rucked up, and the enormity of what they’ve done hits him. He pushes Eames away, wiping his hand on the grass and stumbling to his feet. He lurches to the the side, slamming into the concrete mausoleum.

 

“Jesus, Arthur, calm down.” Eames is on his knees, reaching out to steady him.

 

Arthur jerks away. “Calm down? I’m a fucking priest, Eames!”

 

“I know that, you think I don’t know that?” Eames sits back on his heels, raising his hands to his hair and swearing when he remembers it’s gone.

 

“Jesus Christ, you’re a child.” Arthur says, the world starting to spin.

 

“I am not a child.” Eames spits.

 

“You are. You absolutely are. Oh my God, I’m going to hell.” Arthur has to lean against the mausoleum and put his head between his knees.

 

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is a whole new world to you. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I didn’t do this to you.”

 

Arthur straightens up, trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t say you did, but I’ve taken vows. I can’t even confess because your fucking uncle is the Archbishop. Oh my God, I’m so screwed.”

 

Eames snorts. “Uncle, right. People in glass houses, Arthur.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

“It means that Archbishop Whittington isn’t exactly the pillar of virtue he likes people to think he is. I wouldn’t trust my soul to him, and you shouldn’t either.” Eames stands and starts packing up the food.

 

“This wasn’t my plan, in case you were wondering,” Eames pauses to look at Arthur. “I didn’t bring you out here to seduce you.”

 

“I know that. This is my fault, I should have known better. I can’t believe this is happening again.” Arthur drops his head into his hands.

 

“What do you mean, again?” 

 

Arthur looks at Eames, panic rising in his chest. “I have to go.”

 

Eames drops the containers in his hands, moving to block his path when Arthur tries to leave. “What do you mean, again?” 

 

“I can’t, Eames, please.” Arthur pleads.

 

“Arthur, I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Who would I tell?” Eames has him caged in against the stone wall that runs the perimeter of the property.

 

“Your uncle!” Arthur cries. “I could be excommunicated!”

 

“Arthur, Arthur, listen to me,” Eames grips his arms. “Did they tell you why they sent me here? To the middle of nowhere so I couldn’t cause any trouble?”

 

Arthur shakes his head. The panic is still bubbling inside him, but Eames’ calm voice is keeping it from boiling over.

 

“Because I got caught, Arthur. Someone who knew who I was saw me with another bloke and it got back to him.”

 

“To who?”

 

“Him, my  _ uncle _ .” Eames sneers.

 

“So he sent you here? To me?”

 

“I doubt you had anything to do with it. You’re just another of his flock that he thinks will do follow orders and not ask questions.” 

 

“The Archbishop?”

 

“Did you hit your head?” Eames frowns at him.

 

“Your uncle.” Arthur clarifies.

 

“Not my uncle. My father,” Arthur’s jaw drops and Eames laughs darkly. “Hard to believe, huh?”

 

“That’s not possible.”

 

“Oh, I assure you, it is. My mum died a few years back, but she never hid it from me. She was so proud of him. He paid her bills and for my schooling. Hush money. Bastard didn’t even come to her funeral.” 

 

“You’re his dirty little secret.” Arthur says, reaching a tentative hand out to touch Eames.

 

“And yours, apparently.”

 

“I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.” Arthur tries to pull his hand back, but Eames grabs it, pinning it to his chest.

 

“Do you regret it?”

 

“Of course I do. You’re not even legal yet, Eames. And I’m a fucking priest!” Arthur tears his hand away, collapsing against the wall.

 

“I see,” Eames says, straightening up.

 

“Eames-”

 

“No, don’t. It’s fine. I’m not going to tell anyone. You’re your own man, Arthur, I can’t make you do something that goes against your conscience. But you’re lying to yourself if you think you can live like this forever.”

 

“I know,” Arthur admits. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Well, not exactly like this.”

 

Eames nods. “We should go back. The Kilpatricks are due at one for their baptismal course.”

 

“Right, yes. Because  _ that’s _ going to be easy to focus on after all of this.” Arthur picks up the blanket and shakes it out.

 

“I could call and reschedule them, if you want.”

 

“No, the baptism is on Saturday, we’d best get it done,” Arthur looks over at Eames and he suddenly seems so small. “Thank you, though. For everything.”

 

Eames smiles. “Did you just thank me for a blow job?”

 

“God help me, I think I just did.” Arthur rubs at this face, knowing he’s never going to get over this day.

 

“Come on, the Kilpatricks await.” Eames takes the blanket from him and leads the way back to the church.

 

******

 

Over the next three weeks, Arthur contemplates his immortal soul. He knows he can’t continue as he has been, but saying goodbye to everything you convinced yourself you wanted is easier said than done. The past nine years of his life have been dedicated to overcoming an affliction he was sure would lead to the corruption of his soul, but he can’t deny that the happiest moments of his life have been when he gives into the desires of his heart. Say what you want about heaven and hell, Arthur just wants to stop hating himself.

 

Eames is subdued, but friendly, giving Arthur space to make his own decisions in his own time. Arthur’s sermons turn reflective, something that does not go amiss amongst his congregation. The dinner invitations increase, as though they can sense he’s drifting and seek to ground him in the role they’ve grown comfortable with. Arthur’s reminded again of being expected to turn over his entire sense of self in order to serve these people. It’s not that he doesn’t love his job, he just knows he can’t do it anymore without sacrificing himself.

 

The day before his birthday, Eames sticks close to the church, weeding the flowerbeds and fixing the bench in the gazebo. Arthur watches him from the window in his office, trying to decide if he has the guts to take Eames to dinner tomorrow evening to celebrate. His plans are interrupted when he’s asked to visit the hospital to pray with the family of a man in surgery. Arthur goes, understanding that his relationship with God isn’t being tested, even if his faith in the church is. He can pray for this man and trust that God will listen.

 

Arthur returns late, switching off the porch light and going to bed. At two minutes past midnight there’s a knock at his bedroom door. Eames doesn’t wait for a response, closing the door behind him softly and sliding into Arthur’s bed. Eames is warm and heavy, features lost in the dark of the room, if not to the pads of Arthur’s fingers. Eames kisses his neck, throwing a leg over Arthur’s hips to straddle him beneath the covers. He’s naked and open, inching down on Arthur’s cock with a sigh, Arthur’s fingers biting into the soft skin of his waist.

 

They move together, Eames leaning down for a kiss and gasping when it changes the angle. Arthur touches everywhere he can reach, greedy for the feel of Eames under his hands as Eames rocks over him. Arthur drags his nails down Eames broad back while he sucks a mark into Arthur’s neck, his hips rising to meet Eames’ grasping heat. Arthur pushes him up, running a hand down Eames’ chest before wrapping it around his swollen cock and stroking from root to tip. He uses the precome gathered under the foreskin to slick his hand, gripping Eames so tight he moans and covers Arthur’s hand with his own. 

 

Eames thrust into their joined fists and Arthur pushes into him over and over again, straining to keep up the pace. Arthur’s other hand is leaving bruises on Eames’ thigh, fingers pressed into the flesh so hard the tips have gone numb. Eames tightens around him a moment before he comes, shouting Arthur’s name when his cock throbs and spurts streams of ejaculate over their hands. Arthur grips the back of Eames’ neck, pulling him down to meet his kiss, slamming into him hard enough their teeth clack together. Eames bites down on Arthur’s bottom lip just as Arthur reaches the edge, emptying himself into Eames, the smell of their coupling tickling his nose, and the taste of blood in his mouth.

 

They kiss, tender and soft until Arthur slips out. Eames rolls off him, tucking himself behind Arthur, an arm thrown over his chest to keep him close. Arthur’s drifting, vaguely aware that they should talk about what they’ve done, but Eames is rubbing circles into the skin over his ribs and nuzzling the spot behind Arthur’s left ear, and when Arthur wakes again the sun is shining weakly through the gap in the curtains and Eames is gone.

 

Arthur’s burning his files in fire pit in the yard, occasionally pressing his fingers to the mark hidden by his collar, when the Archbishop arrives. Arthur leads him to his office, calmly explaining that ‘Charlie’ stole away in the night.

 

“And you just let him leave?” The Archbishop demands.

 

“He’s an adult now, I couldn’t exactly stop him.” Arthur runs his tongue over the split in his lip.

 

“I am very disappointed in you, Arthur. I sent that boy here to be cared for. To be watched over and tended to. He was a lost soul and you let him run away.”

 

“If he meant so much to you, why didn’t you take him in? Why send him here instead?” Arthur asks, sitting on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms.

 

“Are you questioning my decisions, Arthur?”

 

“No, I’m questioning your motivations.”

 

A wary look crosses over the Archbishops face, quickly transforming into anger. “How dare you speak to me that way?”

 

“ _ Charlie _ left me a present before he left. It’s only a copy of his birth certificate, but it’s enough to start an investigation. Did you know she named you as his father?”

 

The Archbishop goes pale.

 

“I didn’t think so. I know you’ve got your sights set on becoming a Cardinal, so I’d think long and hard before you go looking for your son,” Arthur leans forward, staring the man down. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t want anything to do with you, and whatever claim you think you have on him isn’t real.”

 

“I am concerned for his soul, Arthur! He is of my blood and he has been corrupted! If you only knew the things he has done-”

 

“Oh, I know exactly what he’s done. And his soul is his own to care for, it doesn’t belong to you, no matter what blood flows through his veins.”

 

The Archbishop’s eyes widen and he gapes at Arthur. “You-”

 

“I’ve already sent a request to Bishop Andrews to start the process of laicization. I’ll remain here until a suitable replacement is found, and then I will leave and you will never have to see me again.” Arthur stands and goes to the door.

 

“And you think I’m just going to grant you this because you threatened me?” 

 

“No, I think you’re going to do it because I have lost my faith in the church and it’s in your best interest to let me go quietly. You’re going to leave  _ Charlie _ alone because I think you genuinely care about him, misguided as your affection may be, and you know there’s nothing you can do to change him. Believe me when I say your life will be a lot easier with both of us gone.”

 

The Archbishop leaves in a huff, sputtering about canonical law and the rites of the Church. Arthur smiles and waves until his car is out of view. That night Bishop Andrews calls to tell him his request has been granted and they've started the process of releasing from Arthur from his clerical state.

 

Three months later Arthur's boarding a flight to San Francisco, Eames' latest letter in his pocket. The flat is cramped, but orderly when Arthur arrives, Eames oddly reserved as he shows him around.

 

Arthur puts his hands on his hips and looks over the canvases lined up against the wall. “I had no idea you were an artist.”

 

Eames shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. His hair as grown back some, though it's nowhere as long as it was. “S’a hobby, really. I got that night security gig, so I can afford halfway decent paints now. That helps.”

 

Arthur smiles, stroking his hand along the top of one of the paintings. “I'm really proud of you, Eames. You've really made a life for yourself.”

 

“I can't believe you're here.” Eames moves closer, wrapping his arms around Arthur and pressing his face into Arthur's neck.

 

“You invited me,” Arthur reminds him, returning the embrace. “Did you think I wouldn't come?” 

 

Instead of answering, Eames tightens his hold, his strong body shaking slightly.

 

“Hey, hey, I'm here.” Arthur soothes, running his palms down Eames' back.

 

“Will you stay?” Eames whispers.

 

Arthur pulls back, cupping Eames jaw and kissing him lightly. “For as long as you'll have me.”

 

“So forever then,” Eames grins, his eyes shining. “Excellent.”

 

“Don't get cocky.” Arthur warns, but he's smiling so wide his face hurts and Eames doesn't look worried.

 

“What're you going to do about it,  _ Father _ ?” Eames growls.

 

“Oh no, don't you dare.” Arthur shoves at his shoulder.

 

Eames laughs, catching Arthur's hand and pulling him back toward the bed. “Oh, yes, Father.”

 

“I'll leave,” Arthur says, voice muffled by his shirt as Eames pulls it over his head. “Don't think I won't.”

 

Eames pushes him down to the mattress and climbs on top of him. Arthur's mouth goes dry when Eames' shirt joins Arthur's on the floor. There's a new tattoo over his heart and Arthur sits up to get a better look. It's the crest of Arthur's church.

 

“Why?” He asks, peering up at Eames.

 

“Because that's where my life changed. Being there with you was the happiest I've ever been. Until now.”

 

Arthur strokes his fingers over the crest, touched by the gesture. “Even the day I made you oil the pews?”

 

Eames rolls his eyes, pushing Arthur back and falling on top of him. “I smelled of fucking oranges for nearly a week.”

 

“Mmm, I know. It was all I could do not to jack off into the fruit bowl.” He sinks his hand into Eames’ hair, giving it an experimental tug.

 

Eames laughs, loud and sharp. “You're a bit cracked, you know that?”

 

“You love it.” Arthur bites at the plush line of Eames’ lower lip.

 

Eames sobers, brushing his nose down Arthur's cheek. “God help me, I do.” 

 


End file.
